


Untraditional

by Jintian



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-17
Updated: 2000-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/pseuds/Jintian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We are all searching for some contentment, and sleep is a pit stop along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untraditional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syntax6](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=syntax6).



  
It is the third night in a row he has fallen asleep on her couch.

She spreads a blanket over him, watching it settle over his long steady-breathing frame. In repose, the lines of his face are relaxed, leaving just hints of all his possible waking expressions. In the time they've known each other she can remember only brief, encapsulated moments of such contentment, hidden between the usual furious, frustrated, life-on-a-thread moments of the work, the work, the work.

She watches the way the firelight casts gold-tinged shadows over his forehead and cheeks. It's a novelty to her, this face without configuration.

It's definitely not an accident that he's sleeping here again tonight. Once is believable, twice is stretching the boundaries. The third time, while she is unwilling yet to call it a charm, is certainly suspicious.

She hadn't thought his recent suggestion of spending more time together meant this. She'd thought he was just trying to open up their working relationship, to set them in some place other than the basement office or the road.

Each night he declines her offer of the guest room with a soft yet determined "Thank you," straightening up against the cushions with the clearest intentions of staying awake. Yet each night he is unable to keep his eyes open despite her best efforts at conversation. She only realizes he has dropped off when he makes some reflexive jerking motion, or his breathing changes, or he does not answer her tentative "Mulder?"

Each night she raises her head from its resting place on her drawn-up knees, turning to check on him from where she sits in the armchair by the fireplace. She watches him without speaking, studies how his mouth goes a bit slack but the lips still follow the same aching curve, how his eyes are closed but his brow is still capable of articulating dreams and sleep-thoughts.

It's a novelty and it's suspicious, this man asleep on her couch. Mulder who likes to wake her up in the dead of night by making her phone ring shrill and insistent, his voice intimate in the darkness of her bedroom despite the physical separation. Six words, "Scully-you-have-to-see-this," yanking her up and into her clothes faster than an alarm clock.

Suspicious but welcome. Her sister used to say that sleep was the last symbol of trust between two people. When you could feel safe in such a vulnerable state with someone else, every other issue was open to exploration.

Scully doubts if she believes such a thing absolutely. She, after all, has never had qualms about sleeping in front of Mulder, whether on their travels or in his own apartment. And of course Mulder trusts her implicitly. But then she has to wonder why the sight of him at peace seems so new to her.

The thought of her sister makes Scully remember a dark moment in the wake of Melissa's death. She had stayed at her mother's house until the funeral, and it was already night when Mulder brought her home. He paused on his way out, just inside her doorframe, turning back to look at where she sat in the very same armchair by the fireplace. "Do you want me to stay with you?" he mumbled.

But there was so much at war within her, so much blame flinging around and burning her inside. She simply shook her head, not looking at him because if she did she might open her mouth and it would all come pouring out. And Mulder didn't need to add anything more to his guilt.

He left then, and he had never offered such a thing again. Not during the cancer, not after her remission, not when Emily died. Even the past few nights he has not said in so many words that he is staying. He simply does it without speaking, like so much between them.

The memories make Scully curl up tighter in her chair. Her mother has asked on a few occasions, pointblank and with the maternal expectation of an honest answer, if she is happy. And it's such a simple question, something that could be answered with a "yes" before either of them could blink.

Only it's not so simple at all, because circumstance and emotion are evolving animals. She could say she's happy now, at this moment, with Mulder asleep less than five feet away. But tomorrow she could find out some other thing had been stolen from her -- three months, motherhood -- and of course happiness is impossible when the world turns upside down.

But then, even if such surprises _weren't_ likely, perhaps that "yes" would still be a lie.

Because what do human beings want, when their most basic needs have been satisfied?

She sits very still, watching the rise and fall of Mulder's chest beneath the blanket. In the light of day, she'd be hard pressed to admit that _this_ might be something she wants. But with night in the room and firelight chasing shadows over him, she sighs and thinks, _Maybe. Maybe I'd say yes to this._

Maybe, if he couldn't wake and look at her with that hopeful-expectant expression in his eyes that makes her shiver with something akin to fear, something akin to desire. Maybe, if she could ever open those last close-guarded parts of herself and let him in to see, to pick things up and perhaps even get them out of order.

She _has_ felt, at times, a visceral urge to meld with him, to fuse their cells in some glorious white blaze of heat and joining and oneness. It's unscientific, illogical, and worst of all, romantic. But it would be so much easier than trying to connect with him through confessions of emotion, with hearts and flowers or other traditional methods.

Neither of them is really good at being traditional.

Suddenly Mulder stirs, stretching long limbs and dislodging the blanket so that it falls to the floor. His eyes wander open and he turns his head to look at her, blinking.

"Scully?" His voice is thick, odd-toned with sleep.

She is actually a bit irritated at him for waking, for jerking her back into reality. "Go back to sleep," she murmurs. "It's okay."

He raises his head a little, so the firelight hits his face fully and shows her the unspoken questions there. She feels a pull in her chest, as if something inside her wants to answer them. "I'm sorry," he says. "I did it again. What's this, the third night in a row?"

She shrugs and stands, intending to go to her room. "Really, it's okay. I'll see you in the morning."

She moves to pick the blanket up from the floor, and he touches her shoulder. She straightens and looks into his eyes. "Thank you, Scully," he says.

And it seems there are questions in his voice as well. What she means is to drape the blanket over him, to leave him there on the couch and go back into the safety of her own room with her door shut between them.

But instead what she does is unthinking, unplanned, like some other woman has crawled into her skin. But no, it's Dana Scully doing this, no question about that. She finds herself stretching out on the couch beside him, fitting her body to his. Her face at his throat, one arm wedging under his back and the other around his waist, her knee between both of his.

She's trying for that meld, that fusion. And it feels like she just might be getting it right, because there is heat all around and every hard part of her seems to be softening.

"Scully?" he croaks into her ear. His breath is warm and inviting, his fingers slipping over her cheek. "Are you...?"

"Shhh," she whispers. "I'm being untraditional."

**Author's Note:**

> Chocolate-dipped Oreo thanks to the lovely Museans for being so quick on the draw, and for having such great aim at that.


End file.
